Normal's Overrated
by 20 pounds of crazy
Summary: Sherlock as a teenager and John as his doctor. Review!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor the characters.**

**This is my first Sherlock fanfic. I appreciate comments/reviews/suggestions/any thing else you can throw at me. Enjoy!**

**The first time he woke**, he was on hard concrete. The adrenaline still coursing through his body diminished the pain a lot, but not enough. He cried out in pain and someone grabbed his hand- the one that wasn't broken. "Sherlock, SHERLOCK" the voice repeated, "It's me, Mycroft. I'm here and the ambulance is on its way. Please answer me, can you hear me?"

Sherlock managed to nod, but stopped when it aggravated the gash on his head.

"Don't move. You're in pretty bad shape."

"Thanks for that," he retorted sarcastically. "I suppose you've also deduced that my head is bleeding. Idiot."

Mycroft inhaled deeply. "Even when you're crumpled on the floor, you're an arse. Yes, your head is bleeding. I know you have a concussion by the size of your pupils. You have three, maybe four cracked ribs and one or two completely broken. Here, let me check," he pressed down on Sherlock's side lightly and he yelled out in pain. "Four cracked, two broken," he corrected. "Along with that, by the way your back is arched I deduced that your back is sprained in two locations- quite badly, I might add. Oh and you have a broken femur."

"That's more like it," approved the injured boy, "How do you know about my leg? I can't feel it."

"I see the bone. I told you that you were in pretty bad shape. I was understating it. That's something normal people do to lighten the tension. By the way, what the _hell_ were you doing?"

"I know you know. You follow me everywhere. Why can't you leave me alone?" Sherlock whined.

"You're welcome for saving your life," snapped Mycroft. "Now's not the time to complain. I hear the ambulance."

Mycroft helped Sherlock up into a somewhat sitting position. With the extra pressure on his ribs, Sherlock let out a gasp of pain and fainted.

**The second time he woke, **his mind was hazy with all of the drugs in his system. He saw blurs of people and realized he was being wheeled down a long, white hallway. He tried to sit up but something- or some_one_, actually- was pinning him down by the shoulders. That simple exertion was enough to make him pass out again.

**The third time he woke, **the first thing he noticed was the smell of too much antiseptic. He was in a hospital. Knowing his family, they would have taken him out of a public area as soon as possible, so it must have been bad. There was a constant, steady beeping of a few monitors nearby (plus multiple others farther away), as well as the shuffling of both people in chairs and people in hospital beds. He deduced that he was in the ICU, because of the multitude of people. That was when he decided to open his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Mycroft. He had a hint of facial hair, so they must have been there for at least a day, maybe two. Mycroft was immediately at his side. "Sherlock, everything's OK. You're alright."

"Obviously. I'm alive," he replied with a scratchy throat. He fidgeted to get into a better position, but the movements made him wince.

"Careful!" Mycroft scolded. "I'm calling the doctor."

"Mycroft, no!" Sherlock pleaded. "I don't need any more drugs. They're an annoyance."

"That's funny, considering how drugs are exactly what got you into this position. I thought you would be happy."

Sherlock sighed. "These drugs cloud my thinking. The drugs I was going to buy were brain _stimulants. _Don't call the doctor."

He pressed the call button. "Too late," Mycroft smirked.

The doctor came in and without any questions, began to prepare a needle. From what Sherlock could tell, the wad of dollar bills in the doctor's pocket was a gift from Mycroft. That being said, the doctor was to ensure their stay was more… "comfortable."

He tried to wiggle his arms around, to make it difficult, but Mycroft grabbed them and he was soon unconscious once more.

Meanwhile, the rest of the ICU inhabitants- or the few that were awake, for that matter- were watching the scene with curiosity. One man stood out to Mycroft. The man, military from what Mycroft could deduce, was staring at them questioningly. Drugging his brother without hesitance seemed to spark something more in him. Mycroft stood up and pulled the thin curtain around him and his brother, giving them as much privacy as possible.

The military doctor didn't think much of it after the curtain was closed. Besides, Dr. Watson had other matters to attend. His sister, Harry, was at the moment only semi-conscious. She was suffering from an extremely high fever. No one knew the cause. The doctors were cooling her down with ice packs and so far she was making progress, but the fever was bound to return. Only time would tell.


	2. Chapter 2

**The next time he woke up, **he kept his eyes closed longer; wanting to appreciate every moment he had to be awake before his brother realized. The drugs still in his system were making it _really _hard to concentrate. He heard his brother talking sternly to the doctor outside the curtain and realized it was ok to open his eyes.

"Look, Dr… Stark," his brother said condescendingly. "My brother and I are from a _very_ important family in London. Our parents actually donated a wing to this hospital, I believe. You're telling me you don't have one empty room in this entire place?"

"I'm terribly sorry," said the doctor. "We are completely filled. There have been quite a few accidents lately. As soon as there is an open room I'll let you know."

Mycroft's tone got softer, more urgent. "My brother… he can't handle public places. He has a hard time interacting with people. He really _needs_ a private room."

The doctor said a few reassuring words and then left to deal with other patients. Sherlock heard his brother sigh. He wanted to cheer him up, but didn't know how.

"Great, our doctor's a kiss ass," Sherlock joked. His brother forced a smile. "Where are mum and dad?"

The smile wiped off his face. "Oh, you know them. They're on their way from… Italy, I believe. They should be here within the next few days. I should call the doctor."

"Not yet," Sherlock said quickly. "Please, just a few minutes. You need some company, judging from the state of you."

His brother gave in, and they talked lightly until the patient next to them made a commotion. She was apparently waking up and resisting the tube in her throat. In their curiosity, Mycroft opened the drape. The brothers saw a woman panicking and the doctor from earlier looking reserved, yet worried. From the resemblance, they both deduced it was her brother. When the tube was out of her throat, she immediately began talking despite the doctors warning her against it.

"Johnny, you know I hate hospitals!" she complained, coughing a bit.

"Harry, you were passed out on the couch with a temperature of 106!" John said, rather angrily. "Why the hell didn't you call me?"

"You have my phone," she said. She refused the water a nurse offered her.

"_My_ phone," he corrected.

"Whatever. When can we leave?"

"As soon as we- I mean the doctors- find out why you had a fever of 106."

She sighed rather dramatically.

Throughout this whole conversation, Sherlock never took his eyes off of Harry. "You're an alcoholic," he stated simply.

"Excuse you?" John asked irritably. "Don't talk to my sister that way."

"That's how he is, I'm terribly sorry," apologized Mycroft.

"How do you know that?" asked Harry. To be honest, John was glad she was distracted.

"You smell like it, along with your old- or his new phone. Scratch marks where it connects to a charger. You don't see a sober person with them, nor a drunk without them. Last night you went to a bar some few blocks away. It was raining slightly when you headed out, but close to pouring when you left the bar without an umbrella."

"Are you psychic?" she exclaimed, turning completely towards the teenager.

"…No," he asked, confused. He looked to his brother for help.

"Normal people aren't used to that. Don't worry, Sherlock," he explained.

"What else do you know?" Harry asked excitedly.

"I know why you have a fever." The doctors looked at him incredulously. "I do," he insisted. "That cut on your ankle was from a bar chair with a broken leg. It scratched you when you pulled it out, and you were too drunk to notice you were bleeding. It was bleeding quite profusely, judging by the depth. It became infected. The rain only aggravated it."

Dr. Watson looked from Harry to the boy, checking her injury to make sure. "That… was amazing. Give her antibiotics," he ordered the doctors. "Thank you, so much."

"You're welcome," he said proudly.

"So I'll be OK?" Harry asked, receiving a convincing nod from the doctors. "Great, let's go John!"

"Whoa, wait a minute," John said. "They have to fix your ankle. You do want to walk, right?"

"Uh, duh?"

"Then you'll have to stay for a while."

She sighed again. "Fine. This sucks."

"I know you won't let me forget it the entire time we're here."

Sherlock yawned twice and one of the doctors was preparing a sedative. "No! I'm fine, I just yawned. I'm not tired, really. Mycroft, tell them to stop sticking me with needles."

His brother didn't help. John felt sorry for the poor boy. "How about you wait a little? He did save my sister's life, so obviously he's not delirious from pain or anything."

"Sorry, doc," said one. "We have strict orders from the parents." They stuck him quickly and the boy was out in seconds.

"He doesn't do well in public situations," explained Mycroft. "It stresses him out. Did you see his BP the entire time he was talking? He doesn't understand interactions."

"I think it's up to him to decide if he wants to be conscious or not."

Mycroft laughed. "That proves my point. You obviously don't know him. Why should you be encouraging him against the advice of people who know him? It's none of your business."

At that point, Dr. Watson made a mental note to keep an eye out on the boy known as Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much for the reviews! I really appreciate it.**

**There are some familiar quotes from the series in this chapter, hopefully you enjoy!**

Sherlock was asleep for 20 hours. His schedule was completely off. When he woke, Mycroft was snoring in the chair by his bed. He heard John and Harry bickering quietly. "Hey," he whispered. The curtain was closed and he couldn't move at all, so he hoped someone would open it. He liked interacting with the two. They were quite entertaining.

John opened it. "Good morning," he said. "Or is it night? I'm not completely sure."

"Does it matter?" asked Harry. "Hi, Sherlock! How are you feeling?"

His entire body was stiff from pain. He could only move his neck to face them and even that hurt. "I'm fine," he said automatically.

John narrowed his eyes at the boy who was obviously lying. "We're not going to call the doctors, if that's what you're worried about."

When he realized the doctor was telling the truth, he sighed. "Everything hurts. Don't tell Mycroft."

"John, make sure he's ok," said Harry. She wasn't the brightest girl, but could tell when someone was in as much pain as Sherlock was.

"Harry, that's the doctors' job."

"So? You're a doctor. Therefore it's _your_ job, too."

"Although the reasoning is logical, I'd have to disagree. Thanks, but no thanks," interrupted Sherlock quickly. He was starting to like his new friends, and was worried about John seeing the marks of self-abuse on his body: needle marks, outlines of nicotine patches, et cetera.

John nodded suspiciously as Sherlock hid his arms under the thin blanket. Sherlock continued talking. "I do have a question irrelevant to the conversation, though" (He wasn't the smoothest at changing the topic) "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's eyes widened. "Um, sorry, what did you just say?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He wasn't the only one affected by this random question. "Whoa! See, John? I_ told_ you he was psychic!" exclaimed Harry. She nearly jumped out of her seat.

"Afghanistan. How- how on earth did you know that?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. To anyone he would appear to have been bored, or annoyed at having to explain. In truth, he was thrilled to have been right and to have people impressed by him without calling him freak.

"You have a tan line, not above your wrist," he said with his eyes closed. "That rules out tanning bed- who wears a shirt in one of those, and you don't seem the type to tan." The latter part made Harry snort. "I know you're a doctor, and that you have a psychosomatic limp, so being wounded in action wasn't a difficult leap. Also, your hair cut was another tell. So, army doctor wounded in action."

"Brilliant," muttered John. "Hold on a second- psychosomatic limp?"

"You do, don't you?" pressed Sherlock. "You're standing, although there are chairs all around you. Almost as if you've forgotten your leg hurts."

John shook his head in amazement.

"Eh, it's not as brilliant when you explain it," Harry said.

"I know. Usually, people don't ask to explain," said Sherlock casually. He didn't seem upset in the slightest by this.

"Well, what do people normally say?" asked John.

Sherlock smirked. "Piss off."

Harry and John started laughing. At first Sherlock thought it was directed at him, but then realized it wasn't and joined in. Mycroft shifted in his chair and the two siblings froze until Sherlock reassured them. "Don't worry; Mycroft's probably the heaviest sleeper you will ever meet."

Harry snorted. "No offense, but who named you two?"

"My parents are filthy rich," Sherlock said, proud of incorporating the slang term in such a casual fashion. "They can do whatever they want."

"Oh, that makes sense. John, I'm going to try walking."

"No, you definitely are not!"

"Yes I am. These painkillers are working their magic!" Despite his brother's pleading, she kicked her legs over the bed and stood. She wobbled slightly, but grabbed the bed for support. She was favoring her good leg a lot, but her ankle was already showing improvements. That is, it_ looked_ like it was improving until she walked. She stumbled forward, grasping onto Sherlock's bed. It jostled him and he cried out in pain.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" she quickly said. John urged her back into her bed.

At this point, Mycroft woke. "What the hell?" he shouted angrily. He pressed the call button multiple times. At this point, Sherlock was gasping. He could only focus on the pain. It was everywhere. John ran to his side and started talking.

"Sherlock, look at me. Look at me, Sherlock. It hurts I know that. Don't think about it. Just look at me."

The scared teen did as he was told. John was grabbing his hand tightly. Whatever he was doing, the pain eased some. That was when a nurse came in and made the rest go away.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

"_Listen, Mycroft, I really didn't mean it. I'm terribly, completely, utterly sorry," said Harry. "I'm an idiot."_

"_I agree," he said. Then he softened up a bit. "It's ok. I know you didn't mean it. Sorry for my outburst earlier."_

"_No problem," she said, returning to her normal happy self. "I deserved it."_

As he slowly woke up, the voices grew more prominent. It took him far too long to process who was talking. He opened his eyes minutely to a blinding light. Words could not describe how much he hated those fluorescent lights.

"Hey, he's up," John said. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Yes," he said slowly, his voice scratchy. He gladly accepted the water his brother offered him. "How long was I out that time?"

"Eight or nine hours, I think," John said.

"Sherlock, I'm really sorry," started Harry. "I just-"

"I know. I heard you explaining to Mycroft."

It took Mycroft's reassurance for her to understand he wasn't angry at her. Mycroft was a bit surprised; here was his antisocial little brother actually being… social. It was quite interesting. Three hours ago, he denied a private room. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the siblings' company. They simply wouldn't tell their parents about the earlier incident. Or the private room.


	4. Chapter 4

…**Introducing Sherlock's parents! They will appear more in following chapters. Sorry for the short chapter; I'm having a difficult time spacing the story out.**

John had stepped out of the ICU for only a few minutes; he was looking to find some somewhat decent coffee but to no avail. He settled on some from the downstairs waiting room. He also grabbed a couple bags of pretzels, expecting Mycroft to be hungry.

When he reentered the ICU, he saw a man and a woman standing at the end of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock wasn't looking directly at them, most likely because the woman was crying. The man held her. John only heard part of what he said.

"…don't know how this happened. Sherlock, who _did_ this to you?" The man seemed completely astounded.

Meanwhile, the woman was sobbing convulsively into his shoulder. John heard comments of _my baby _and _oh my god _being uttered.

"Mummy, I'm _fine_," repeated Sherlock for the umpteenth time. "You didn't need to come all the way here."

"Honey, you can't even move! Do _not _tell me that you are fine because you clearly are not!"

"You cannot use a negative word twice in a sentence," the teen muttered, appearing bored.

"Son, don't talk to your mother like that. You are going to tell us everything that happened," his father said sternly.

"Father, I'll tell you," said Mycroft. The two brothers shared a brief look and Sherlock gave a small sigh of relief, knowing his secret was safe.

The three stepped outside, completely ignoring John. John plopped down into his usual chair and tossed a bag of pretzels to Sherlock, who had skipped the past two meals.

"Was your therapist upset you had to reschedule your meeting?" asked Sherlock, who successfully managed to open the bag with one hand.

"Actually- wait, how do you know I have a therapist? Did Harry tell you?"

"No, but you have a psychosomatic limp, so obviously you have a therapist. You deliberately checked that your phone was in your pocket before you left, meaning you needed to contact someone. It wasn't too far of a leap. I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yeah, it's just…" John couldn't seem to find the right words.

"We're not used to having a psychic around," explained Harry. "It's creepy."

"I'm not psychic, there's no such thing. But I- I think I understand what you're saying," Sherlock said. He seemed surprised to understand others for once.

At this point, his parents came back in the room. His father, noticing the two untouched lunch trays, narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?"

"I just ate," he said, which technically was the truth.

"I mean a meal, not a few pretzels."

"Uh… I don't know. These damn drugs are messing with my sense of time. I don't even know how long I've been here."

"Don't talk like that!" scolded his mother. "Sherlock, sweetie, please try and eat. You're very sick and you need your strength."

"I'm not sick, I'm injured," corrected the boy. "There's a difference. And this food is disgusting. I'm not hungry, either."

"I'll make him eat, father," said Mycroft.

"Kiss ass," Sherlock muttered under his breath. They didn't seem to hear. "I take it that you two aren't staying long?"

They didn't even ask for an explanation as to why he knew that; they looked guiltily at each other. "Sweetie, this business trip will be over in a few days. You'll have to stay here for a while, anyways… I'm so sorry, but this meeting is important," said his mother. "We'll be back as soon as possible- promise."

Sherlock remained expressionless, not even hinting at an emotion. This wasn't the first in a series of disappointments, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Sherlock's parents and Mycroft left to discuss treatment options with the doctor. Sherlock's face remained impassive. John tried to think of something to stay, but couldn't.

"They're not bad parents," Sherlock defended.

"I know," said John. He tried to sound convincing, if not for himself then for Sherlock.

"They just… prioritize rationally. That's all it is," the more he tried defending them, the more desperate he sounded.

"I know," he repeated.

Sherlock's eyes grew increasingly heavy. He didn't even bother trying to fight against them; there was no reason.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for the long waiting period, for those of you who are even reading this. **

**I really wanted someone to be named Greg Holmes (House fans, you'll understand; hopefully you like the title of the story too!), but it didn't really fit. Sorry, this chapter is a bit weak. If you have any suggestions, I'm always open to them! Anyways, enjoy.**

Not even ten minutes after Sherlock fell asleep, Mycroft and their parents walked back into the room. Mrs. Holmes sat down in Mycroft's chair and tightly held Sherlock's unbroken hand. Mycroft and his father headed over to where John was sitting. John wasn't expecting the conversation he was about to have.

The older man greeted him with a strong handshake. "My name is Benjamin Holmes; I'm Sherlock and Mycroft's father."

John nodded. "Nice to meet you; John Watson."

"Mycroft has told me everything about you," said Benjamin, and John didn't doubt that for a second. "Listen, we really appreciate everything you've done for Sherlock."

This confused the doctor. "I haven't really… done anything."

The man was persistent. "Believe it or not, you've done a tremendous amount. As you can probably tell, Sherlock isn't the most… outgoing child. He has never really fit in or interacted well with others. Now, here Mycroft is telling me that he is actually talking again. That's because of you. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," John said, still not believing he really did anything. "Hold on, did you say he wasn't talking before?"

Benjamin nodded sadly. "He hasn't talked in the past three months and has barely eaten since long before then. We've brought him to therapy, group counseling, and everything else that had the slightest chance of working; he just won't talk when he doesn't deem it necessary. We're worried about him."

"Wow," is all John could think to say. "Well, I'm glad I could help. Your son is very unique; both of them are."

Benjamin laughed. "Don't we know it. My wife Laura and I are in the middle of a very important business conference in Italy. We need to be back for tonight; I trust you can help Mycroft keep an eye on Sherlock?"

John noticed how he meant keep an eye on Sherlock, not Mycroft; no one trusted the poor kid. He nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Thanks again."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Once again, Benjamin, Laura, and Mycroft left the room. John sat down in his chair, more stressed out than before. Harry was giving him strange looks, but he was ignoring them. He was replaying Sherlock's parents' visit over and over in his mind; something just didn't seem right.

"They're always like that," Sherlock said, his eyes still closed.

John jumped slightly. "How long have you been awake?"

"I never fell asleep. Sleeping's boring."

"So you heard all of that."

"Yup."

"Eavesdropping isn't nice," Harry chimed in.

"By saying that, you're contradicting yourself," Sherlock said.

"Whatever. I just wanted to join the conversation. Your dad didn't even acknowledge me," she pouted.

"He doesn't acknowledge anyone. That's his nature," Sherlock replied. "Unless, of course, they are of importance to him in some way. He's manipulative that way."

"He's just looking out for you, I'm sure," John said. That's what he wanted to believe, at least.

"Uh, no," Sherlock said, shaking his head. He winced; the wound on his head wasn't completely healed. "Laura, on the other hand, is looking out for me. My father doesn't want any bad press about me in the paper or anywhere else, that's all."

John noted the way he addressed his parents. "Oh and before you start trying to go all psychological on me or whatever, I address my parents with whatever name comes to my head first; I personally don't like the name Benjamin. Don't look too deeply into that," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"OK, how did you _possibly _know what I was thinking of?" asked John.

Sherlock's smirk widened. "Complete guess."

John shook his head in utter disbelief. This kid was a genius; he could do anything, be _anything _and here he was, injured from a drug dealer. It wasn't a question of _if_ Sherlock took drugs (from time to time John would see a flash of his arm, pale white skin marred by needle jabs), it was how much he was taking and why.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Harry. She saw the look on her brother's face and was instantly curious. So was Sherlock.

"I was just wondering why a teenager, the most intelligent and brilliant one I have ever known, is ruining his body by doing drugs," he shot a pointed glance at the boy who was idly playing with a loose string on his blanket. Sensing the doctor was talking about him, he looked over.

"If you're talking about me, then I suggest not wasting your time. Drugs help me _think_," he defended.

"Drugs don't help you think; trust me, I'm a doctor," John retaliated. "If you've only seen some of the things I've seen…"

"I have. And more," the boy stated solemnly. John didn't doubt it for a second. After the long moment passed, he added, "and relax. It's a seven percent solution and I use it on a monitored schedule; I'm not a _complete _idiot."

John almost face palmed, right then and there.


End file.
